


Little Bo Peep Show

by KresleyColefan



Series: Arcana Means Secrets [2]
Category: Arcana Chronicles, Kresley Cole, Poison Princess - Fandom
Genre: Best Friends, Gen, Latex, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KresleyColefan/pseuds/KresleyColefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melissa Warren + cosplay<br/>= trouble with a chance of rubble.</p><p>Mel and Evie use Mrs. Warren's computer to hack into the school database.</p><p>Imagined scene from Arcana Chronicles Book One<br/>Poison Princess by Kresley Cole</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Bo Peep Show

 

**Day Zero - 6 Hours B.F. (Before Flash)**

Sterling, Louisiana

 

 

 _"Shit!_ I'm _Rizzo!_  Not cool, Greene _._  SO not cool."

     Turning from the computer screen, my eyes widened at the sight of my best friend Mel bursting from her mother's closet, her floor length coat an undulating mass of thick white fur. Eyes boring into mine, she charged across the bedroom, each step a gunshot against the blood red marble floor.

    The tableau she struck was certainly magnificent--intimidating even--but the hairstyle was confusing. In odd contrast to the decadent coat, her rich, auburn locks were braided into low pigtails, the ends finished with bright, oversized periwinkle bows.

    My fingers paused on the keyboard.

    "What're you wearing? What's up with your hair? Is that real fur? And what's not cool?"

    I might've been a _tiny_ bit nervous about my looming confrontation with Jackson Deveaux.

     As she came closer, I decided Mel's fierce expression wasn't aimed at me. She seemed focused on some distant point, her look that of a runway model--inexplicably, habitually pissed.

     Mel's mom was widely known as the Louisiana Imelda Marcos, and though it'd never been confirmed, I wagered she had the only shoe closet in the world with its own lobby and private elevator.

     Rolling the office chair to the edge of the desk, I leaned to the right to get a better look at what promised to be seriously fierce footwear.

   Below the hem of thick white fur, I beheld the highest spiked heels I'd ever seen. If I tried standing in those things, I'd bust my ass for sure;  but Mel merely soldiered on, her heels flicking in and out like bright blue tongues. 

     I was still staring at the glossy, pointy-toed periwinkle boots when Mel stopped abruptly beside Mrs. Warren's massive four poster bed. Spinning to face me, she spread her arms wide--like an albino phoenix. Her expression was one I'd seen often. It said, _Watch closely, Eves. Prepare to be amazed._

     Seeming confident of my undivided attention, she crouched slightly before springing up and back, sailing in a high arcing freefall. After a stunning hang-time, she landed dead center on the silky black duvet with a muffled _whoomp_. In the silence that followed, I watched a small tuft of white fur as it gently wafted down onto the crimson floor.

     When I glanced up at Mel, she raised her palms toward the ceiling and began casually inspecting her manicure. Again, I marveled at the height of the heels hanging off the edge of the bed. 

    "How'd you get past security anyway?" Mrs. Warren had installed a fingerprint scan on her shoe vault after Mel'd wedged her size tens into a pair of size seven Manolo Blahnik alligator pumps. _  
_

"Dismantled the faceplate and cut the wires," she said in a bored tone.

     My eyes went wide. " _What_? Wait. _What_? Won't someone be coming?" My voice held panic, my gaze darting from Mel to the closet and then back to the computer screen. We were already breaking into private accounts.

     "Relax, _chica_." She sighed. "Meli's got it all worked out."

       _Doubtful_ , I thought. Though, I had to concede, if an elite security team was set to storm the bedroom, they likely would've done so by now. "But your mom's gonna know we were here and I don't want her to be pissed at me."

      Mel raised an eyebrow.

     "Or you," I quickly added.

    She gave an exasperated huff. "Okay, grasshopper. Let _Meli-san_ explain a few things. First, she'll know we were here because of the cameras . . . " She made a vague gesture toward the ceiling. " . . . so the wires don't really matter. Second, she's a guidance counselor, Evie . . . a _fixer_. Fixing people and problems are like _crack_ to her kind. I'm just doing my job. When I break shit, it's like I'm supporting her favorite hobby. I'm doing this all for her."

    I took in her expression--serious and so sincere--and I had to wonder if Mel actually believed what she was saying. Having no idea how to respond, I bit my lip and kept quiet.

    Seeming disappointed no debate would ensue, Mel huffed once, then flopped back on the bed.  "You've been at it for half an hour, Greene. That's almost  _thirty_ minutes. Forget about the Cajun already! I'm bored and I'm hungry. You know that's when bad shit happens. And before you say, ' _Ask Justine,_ ' she's off on Sundays, so there's nothing to eat here."

    I sighed. "And we had the same conversation last Sunday. You and I both know she leaves an extra meal." I nodded toward the bed. "And you look like an Oreo, by the way."

    Propping up on her elbows, she glanced down at the black bedspread framing the creamy white fur and frowned.

    "Damnit, _bitches_!" Mel was still in her _I'll-Call-Everyone-Bitches_ phase.

    Slapping her palms against her upper chest twice in rapid succession, she threw her arms out to the side in a move suggesting challenge, like she was ready to rumble or something. In an accusing tone, she snapped, "Now I need Oreos." as if I'd wronged her somehow.

     I'd only seen Mel truly mad a handful of times in all the years we'd been friends. Red would creep up her chest and neck, then spread out over her face. It was like watching the rise of an angry thermometer.

   Eyeing the pale skin above the fur collar, I smiled. 

   Mel took in my expression and shrugged, seeming to acknowledge the fact she'd failed to intimidate me. With a single nod, she smiled with approval. I could almost hear her saying,  _Well done, grasshopper. Well done.  
_

    Shifting her gaze to the walls, she began a systematic scan of the bedroom--top to bottom--as if Mrs. Warren might have a hidden portal to a magical land of milk and honey . . . _and cookies_.

    "C'mon, Mel. I need to do this." I motioned toward the computer. "It's important. Couldn't you just- _-I don't know_ \--heat something up?"

     Mel's expression said I'd blasphemed.

     In one fluid movement, she leapt from the bed's foot rail, landing in a silent crouch-- _like Cat Woman._

     I raised my brows.

     She straightened. "I'm going to pretend you didn't ask if I'd . . . " She shivered. ". . . operate a _kitchen-type_ appliance."

    Then, to my _great_ misfortune, Mrs. Warren's screensaver kicked in.

    The image of a cat dressed as Audrey Hepburn barely had time to register when Mel whooped a battle cry. There was a shriek and a blur and suddenly white hot pain shot through my right shoulder.

    " _Punch-Cat!"_  

     She shouted the words a second time as another image scrolled across the screen. A twin to the pain in my right arm radiated through my left shoulder. Both arms now hung limp, somehow numb and throbbing at the exact same time.

     Gritting my teeth, I summoned the courage to lift a hand and bump the mouse, saving myself from a third cat-in-clothes pic and--undoubtedly--another one of Mel's well-placed blows. As the screen blinked back to Sterling High's faculty website, I slumped in relief.

         " _Punch-Cat!"_ was apparently the latest evolution of " _Punch-Bug!", the_ original game started years ago as a painful--yet thankfully infrequent--punch on the arm from whichever one of us spotted a Volkswagen first.

     Mel's speed and deep appreciation for violence were two of the reasons I hadn't landed a punch in five years. Another contributing factor was how frequently the trigger word changed.

     Whenever I'd finally condition myself to be on the lookout for "Uni-brows" or "Hot-pockets", the word would instantly change to something like "Boner." Incidentally, at the start of _"Punch-Boner"--_ I'd felt relatively safe, thinking the word wouldn't spring up too often, since-- _presumably_ \--I wouldn't be anywhere near Mel whenever the subject . . .  _arose_. But then, in our freshman year, we'd ended up sharing three classes with the excitable Gerald Wilson. I think she aroused the poor boy just to liven up the game.  

     If I ever made the mistake of complaining about _always_ being on the receiving end of the abuse, Mel would accuse me of being a bad sport.

     " _Abuse_? It's not my fault you totally suck at ' _Punch-Roadkill' ,"_ she'd scoffed.

     Or, " _Punch-Uni-brow"_ is helping me prepare you, Eves.  _Toughen up!_ Embrace your training! Wax on, grasshopper. Wax off."

     I actually shuddered at the memories of " _Punch-Cow!"._

     When I spoke again, I sounded whiny, even to myself.

     "How come I never get to pick the new word? It's not fair! And why can't you at least tell me it's been changed _before_ I get hit?"

     From her lounging position on a nearby white leather chaise, Mel's tone was condescending.

     "Fair, Evie?  Really? . . .   _Really_? Don't talk to me about fair."

     She made a queenly gesture toward her propped up feet. "These boots are _three_ sizes too small, but do you hear me complaining? No." Regally lifting her chin, she said, "We must all make sacrifices." Quickly adding, "So, quit being such a pussy, Greene."

     I smiled in spite of myself.  "Okay, I'll give you points for being clever." When she simply stared, seeming confused, I said, "You know . . . because of the new word being "cat" , then you said . . . " My words trailed off. It was bad enough being made to think it. I would not say _pussy_ aloud.

    Turning away, I jiggled the mouse again--all proactive-like--trying to recall the second screensaver image. It might've been a calico dressed as Jack Sparrow.

    I tapped my chin, wondering if another look was worth the pain. No, I decided. No it was not. Though, if it'd been Edward Scissorhands, there would've been a major dilemma.

    Resigned, I sighed. "Okay then . . . henceforth: " _Punch-Cat_!" it is.

     From the corner of my eye, I saw Mel glide to her feet. As she strolled to a stop close behind me, I was surprised her footfalls hadn't just been quiet, but silent. Leaning in close, she gripped my shoulders. "So, tell me Evie, what is it about _pussy_ that makes you so uncomfortable. Then she launched into a monologue of obscenity that practically set my ear on fire. Every sentence was an explicit, richly painted visual of acts and specifics featuring the "p" word. I was so stunned by the verbal porn, I sat rigid, staring straight ahead with parted lips, only moving occasionally to jiggle the mouse.

     Mel'd made no secret of the fact she liked boys _and_ girls. I had no idea if she'd acted on the latter interest, but some of the . . . _um_ . . . _details_ included in this verbal _ode-to-girl-parts_ kinda made me wonder.

     After my face was what she must've considered an acceptable shade of scarlet, I heard her sigh of contentment as she ambled away and began searching the drawer contents of the bedside table.

     She tossed over her shoulder, "C'mon, Eves. Let's just go. The burritos are calling my name. Can't you hear them? Dear Meli, won't you come and eat us . . . Sweet Meli, please come and eat us all . . . "

    Though I would've sworn it wasn't possible, what followed was another round of even more explicit dirty talk. But Mel'd already played the shock card on this particular subject, so I turned back to the computer and focused on the task at hand.

     She was still talking in a rapid stream when I tuned back in.

" . . . and we all know how this shit plays out.. You desperately search the school database for the smokin' hot Cajun's address. All the while you're moaning about . . . " She clucked her tongue to draw my attention. " . . .  _stolen sketch pads_ or identities or whatever . . . "

     She'd actually made air quotes around the words _"sketch pads."_

     Immediately, she resumed rifling through Mrs. Warren's dresser.

     "Are you looking for something in particular?  I craned my neck for a better view, but couldn't see anything beyond the six foot tower of twitching white fur.

     Again, she ignored me.

     "You're like . . . . 'Oh Mel, my glorious and perfect best friend, whatever shall I do about that bad boy, Danny--I mean-- _Jackson_. He's stolen my . . . ' "

     She snapped her fingers, then pointed in my direction, demanding, "What was it again?"

     I felt like I was under interrogation, half-expecting a light to beam from her fingertip, blinding me until I gave up the information. When I didn't _sing_ , she swiftly put the needle back on the record.

     "Whatever. How about we fast forward to the bad girl makeover, _Hmm_? We can go to a house of mirrors, find a flying car . . . I won't even make you smoke this time. C'mon, _Eves_. It'll be fun."

     "I thought we did the bad-girl makeover last night." At her blank look, I said, "Big hair? Harlot Letter lipstick? The boots . . . the skirt? Is _any_ of this ringing a bell?"

     As if I hadn't spoken, she continued, "And then he's all . . . 'I'm from da wrong side of 'dem tracks but-- _hey girl_ \--has you seen me?' "

    Mel's attempt at a Cajun accent was shuddersome, though it was actually a fairly decent B'rer rabbit.

    "And you're like . . . 'I hate you. I love you. Let's go make Cajun cheerleader babies.'"

     I pinched my forehead.

    "Stop! Just . . . _stop_." I fought back a smile. Mel needed no encouragement.

     She'd paused her plundering, using both hands to fan her face.

     "Why don't you take that thing off?  I'm hot just looking at you. Aren't you sweaty under there?"

    She nodded solemnly. "Like a horde in church."

  _\--Don't say anything, Evie. Don't say anything_. . . I mentally pleaded with myself not to engage. There was never a satisfactory end to these conversations. Against my will, the words slipped out. "I don't think it's horde."

    Mel cocked a brow. "You don't think what's horde?"

    Though it knew it was futile, I further explained, "I don't think that's how the saying goes. I think it's whore . . . Like a _whore_ in church."

    I could see the wheels turning; I braced myself.

     "Whore makes no sense," she said. "If anything a whore would be underdressed. Why would a whore be sweaty? I'm pretty sure it's horde, grasshopper."

     Now I was mentally shouting at myself not to respond, but the words came out anyway. "How does _horde_ make better sense? When is there ever a horde in church? And why would they be sweatier there than they would anywhere else?" There, that should set her straight. For good measure, I added, "And a whore would be sweaty because church makes sinners--you know--nervous or whatever."

     Mel suddenly seemed vulnerable, her eyes huge and innocent. In a small voice, she asked, "A whore is a sinner?" 

    I opened my mouth, then closed it. Repeating the process twice more, reminding myself of Jackson at school.

     Seeming genuinely perplexed, Mel's brows were drawn together as she pinched and tugged at her bottom lip.  Finally, she held up a forefinger, her expression brightening.

    "In every zombie movie, there's always a church scene. _Always_. So it could be a zombie horde . . . a gerbil horde . . . a hamster horde . . . The possibilities are endless! So, horde trumps whore. Case dismissed. Defendant gets twenty gold pieces. Plaintiff gets public flogging."

     As soon as Mel said _zombie_ , the images of the bogeymen in my sketchbook came rushing to the fore. Imagining those horrid creatures was bad enough, but now I had to worry about others seeing my crazy drawings. And _did_ gerbils and hamsters come in hordes?

    Mel must've noticed my pensive look, because she paused her assault on Mrs. Warren's lingerie chest and stalked over to the desk.

     Spinning my chair until we were face to face, she took a knee like she was gonna propose or . . . _Tebow_. I chose to ignore the odd squeaking sounds originating under the coat.

    "Listen, Evie. There's something important I need to say." She held my hand between hers, commanding my full attention. She cleared her throat.

    "I'm making you a promise. As your best friend in the entire universe . . . "

    She paused for dramatic effect.

    "If I ever hear you mention _Spanxx_ in _any_ context whatsoever, I promise I will intervene. I'll get you the help you need. I give you my vow."

    She cast a baleful look toward the open lingerie drawer she'd just plundered.

    Having ten years of Mel experience under my belt, I solemnly nodded.

    "Thank you, Melissa Warren. You are-- _hands-down-_ -the _best_ friend in the entire universe."

    When I could no longer stifle a giggle, I snagged the crimson throw pillow at my back, nearly landing a surprise blow. Of course, Mel ducked and grabbed the pillow, nailing me before I could say _Boo_.

     My hair hadn't even settled, and she was back on her feet, arms overhead, eyes and fingers spread wide, her face lit up with joy.

    "Pillow fight scene! _Of course!_ That's _brilliant_ , Sandy . . . " She pretended to titter behind her hand. ". . . I mean, _Evie_."

    Stalking backward toward the closet--heels, once again, pounding into the marble--she stroked her fingers through the furry lapel suggestively. I couldn't decide if she was going for sexy or creepy.

    "By the way," she breathed, her tone a low purr, "This coat's made from kittens--white, fluffy, tiny kittens."

    Okay,  _definitely creepy_.

    Abruptly, she dropped her hands, her voice snapped back to normal. "You know I love the shit out of you, _right_?"

    I was still smiling when I nodded.

    "I love you too."

    Mel's expression turned as serious as I'd ever seen it. "Whatever happens, I'll be on your side. That's what best friends do. Meli's got your back, no matter what."

    I waited for a punch line that never came.

    With a wan smile, she disappeared back through the doorway.

 

 

 

~Fifteen minutes later~

 

     "Jenga!" I shouted as Mel emerged from the closet.

     "I've got it. I've got Jackson's address!"

     My grin was wide when I turned toward Mel.

     "Does this scream high school guidance counselor, or what?"

     Spinning a slow circle, she let me take in the outfit from every angle.

     I stared at my best friend, my face frozen in what must've been a hideous clown smile.

     She must've been wearing this under the coat, I dumbly reasoned.

     It was like a train wreck--a pornographic latex train wreck--a pornographic nursery rhyme themed latex train wreck. I couldn't look away. Hell, I couldn't even blink. It was like an HBO Documentary waiting to happen-- _My Best Friend is a Dominatrix Shepherdess._

     "Look, it's the _Little Bo Peep Show,_ " she chirped, twirling to display the ruffled panties underneath the "skirt."

    "I . . . " Shaking my head, I swallowed thickly.

     "I-I have so many things I want to say right now . . . I don't even know where to begin. W-Wait, that's your mother's?"

     My voice'd gone shrill at the end.

    An image of sweet, kind, _petite_ Mrs. Warren and the towering, handsome Mr. Warren flashed into my mind. _Oh God,_ how would I ever look at either of them again? I had a sudden overwhelming urge to gouge out my retinas.

     "Yea, it was hanging beside the mom jeans," she snickered. "But it still has the tags... You, know . . . new car smell and all."

     "Do you think it's for Halloween or . . . " I swallowed again. ". . . _role play_? S-sorry. Forget I asked. That was inappropriate."

      "Inna-what-uh? I _hope_ it's for role-play," She twirled around, checking out her ass in the full length mirror. "I mean, the teachers dress up for Halloween, _right_?"

     Now she was clacking toward me. I instinctively shrank back into my chair.

    "Can you imagine Broussard's face if my mom wore this to school?" She grinned. "Can you say eyebrow boner?"

     She leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, "The standard boner kinda goes without sayin'.... _Oops_ , Guess I said it. Just call me your worldly pal Rizzo... " She winked.

    "I don't want to imagine your mom wearing this. Period. And I really don't want to talk about anything involving Broussard and boners. "

     "Come on, Evie. Adults have sex. Sometimes, they even have fun. If my gene donors wanna play _hide the sheep_ behind closed doors, what's it to me?"

     She twirled her way to the vanity table and began applying blood red lipstick.

     "If we're going to the Cajun's, let's go. And bring your purse. I need Oreos . . . and Taco Bell."

      She shimmied her lips together, made a popping sound and turned on her heel for the door.

     "Hide the sheep?" I called to her retreating back. "I think that's illegal in Louisiana."

    "You can get a special permit." She dead-panned, her voice trailing off.

      I scribbled down the address, alarmed by how quickly Mel was squeaking down the hall;  I'd never be able to stop her.

     "Wait!" I shouted, scrambling to catch up.

    "Aren't you gonna change clothes?"

     She turned slowly, tilted her head, casting me a puzzled look. "Why?"

     Once again, I did the trout on a hook thing, gaping about for where to begin. I eyed the periwinkle blue thigh high lace up boots--at least the squeaking mystery was solved--the leather choker necklace that looked suspiciously like a dog collar, and the latex corset laced so tight I was shocked she could draw breath.

     This was a tenuous time. One wrong word from me would ensure Mel went out dressed _exactly_ this way. My shoulders slumped _. I am defeated . . . utterly defeated._

    "No reason." I mumbled. "No reason at all."

    "I'm just messin' with you, Greene."

    My relief was intense, but I quickly remembered to mask it. Me, remaining anywhere _near_ my comfort zone was _never_ part of Mel's end-game. _  
_

"You're right, Eves. I can't go out like this." She waved a hand toward her front.

     -- _Thank God._

     I sighed. Crisis averted. The nipple cut-outs alone would've gotten her arrested.

     As she disappeared back into the bedroom, I slid down the wall, closed my eyes and took in a deep breath.

     With the wardrobe drama settled, I began to get nervous about what drama lay ahead with Jackson. I knew he had my sketchbook. I couldn't take a chance on _anyone_ seeing those drawings or I'd be locked away at CLC forever. Surviving two more years of high school, then escaping out on my own for college was quickly becoming nothing but a pipe dream.

     "Okay. All set."

     Mel reappeared, making me jump. She hadn't been gone ten seconds.

     I stared in morbid fascination as she adjusted the wide brim of an--honest to God-- _latex bonnet._ The huge periwinkle ribbon tied to one side under her chin matched the boots exactly. The ruffles on the hat's underside perfectly mimicked the panties.

    She reached back through the doorway for her shepherdess's hook, then straddled it like a witch's broom.

    "C'mon. I'm starving." She tapped her cheek with a thoughtful expression. " _Hmm_ . . . and now I'm craving lamb."

     Knowing the options moving forward were limited, I tried to keep the pleading out of my tone.

     "C-Can we just go through a drive-thru . . . and will you stay in the car at Jackson's?"

     "Sure I will, grasshopper." She gave me a wicked grin." _Suuuure I will."_

     With that, she galloped down the hall, pulling back on the hook shouting, " _Whoa, Silver!"_

      As the staff clattered to the floor, she twirled and spun, a blur of fetish wear practically flying the length of the hall. Before I registered what was happening, she had me twisted into a surprise head-lock, scrubbing her knuckles aggressively into my hair. Her laughter echoed through the vast hallway with undisguised glee.

      With a resigned sigh, I thought-- _This oughtta end well._


End file.
